40 going on 20

Dhaka is not London or Singapore by any stretch of imagination. At least not yet. Medical care can be hit or miss even in one of the modern private hospitals. Maybe that is why our Embassy medical unit is going out its way to make sure everybody stays as healthy as possible. Part of the efforts? A biggest loser type of competition. You go in, check your weight, drop at least 10% of that and bam, you get the jackpot. And get healthy in the process. Easy, isn't it?

So, filled with good intentions and all that pork I had been force fed with in Romania, this week I showed up for a weigh in. They have this really sophisticated machine that spits out all this fancy numbers: BMI, Muscle mass, visceral fat rating and so on.

And best of all? I finally figured out why Dhaka feels so good: I am turning back the clock. My metabolic age is in the twenties. It's all starting to make sense now. That is why I have been accused by my kids and spouse of growing in height during their summer absence. That is why I have all this unconsummated energy and passion. From now on, I don't want to hear my significant other complaining that I am refusing to act my age.